


How would you feel?

by alivealivealive



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Beta-less, Boys In Love, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Simon wears glasses, Soft Boys, University, poem writing, surprise at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 10:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19003852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivealivealive/pseuds/alivealivealive
Summary: "Snow, how would you feel having apoemwritten about you?"He places his laptop on the coffee table, and his eyes search mine, and I swear to Merlin I'm blushing so hard I feel like the room is a burning forest."What?"I roll my eyes and hide behind my glass of wine, "You heard me,"





	How would you feel?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m back with a One-Shot, just a quick fluffy story about my favourite boys! I apologise if there are any grammar/spelling mistakes, English is not my first language (but I try!)! I hope you like this.
> 
> The question, “How would you feel, having a poem written about you?” lodged itself into my brain a few days ago and I had to write this about Baz and Simon’s relationship.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this huge ball of fluff <3!
> 
> Avatar by Venessa Kelley. Check out her amazing art on:  
> https://vkelleyart.tumblr.com/  
> Check out her brand-new graphic novel, MANU. (omg!): https://manu-graphic-novel.tumblr.com/

#####  Baz 

It's Friday afternoon. The faintest rays of sunlight are streaming through Fiona's living room window, catching on Snow’s bronze curls. Simon Snow is sitting on the other end of the sofa, laptop perched on the armrest and he’s only wearing soft grey joggers that I can't even remember if they belonged to me or him originally. This is the perfect picture of domesticity.

It's like this with all of our loungewear. Our regular clothes are a completely different story, but these days it’s not uncommon to see me in one of his sweatshirts during a weeknight, or him wearing one of my silk pyjama bottoms. It drives Fiona mad. Thankfully, she's away for the weekend and won't be here witness this. (We’re only here because Bunce’s boyfriend is visiting, and we decided to return the favour and make ourselves scarce.) (Snow says it’s called being sexiled.)

 _Crowley_ , I never thought we'd get to this point. Furthermore, I never thought I would enjoy it this much. Recurrently, when I’m at the Club for a long time, or in a conference for Uni, I find myself daydreaming about takeaways and white wine. And being on my back, pressed up against the sofa’s cushions, drowning in Snow’s lazy kisses.

This flat is large and Victorian (or gothic, as Simon would call it), with its dark wood furniture and burgundy carpeted floors, and just the living area is big enough to house three large couches and a coffee table, but whenever we're here we always insist on sitting on the largest one, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. Snow only opened the curtains completely just now because he knows the sun has mostly gone down and it won't bother me now. He's sickeningly sweet. 

I'm drinking white wine, we both are. He's furiously typing on his laptop. I think he's writing one of his final papers for the semester and I'm sitting cross-legged, poem journal on my lap, pretending not to gaze at him. The Flaming Lips’ “Do you realize??” is playing softly in the background, my phone long-forgotten on the coffee table.

I didn't exactly start writing poems recently. I think my earliest (and worst) works are from back when I was fourteen. It's just that this semester at LSE I decided to take a creative writing workshop just as an extra, and they're requiring us to turn in our ten favourite pieces as a final assignment. 

I have them all arranged and printed. They’re ready to hand in, but there's a very special one I've been meaning to hand in and then I keep regretting it and replacing it with something else every time. But it’s ridiculously special to me. How I tried to tell the story of our complicated, long relationship in fifteen verses.

I just don't know how Simon would feel about it if he knew it was about him. Fuck, he'd probably be creeped out by my intensity. Even after almost three years of dating.

It's not that we haven't had sex or said I love you, (We do both things now. Frequently.) I just think it's a completely different thing to say, "Hey, I've been writing a few poems about you since we were kids. Want to take a look?" 

But I also know it’s important for me to tell him If I’m actually going to hand it in because it might get published in a Poetry Anthology. The Professor said he’d include his favourite works in his own book it if he found them romantic enough. So, he needs to know.

And secretly, I think Simon Snow deserves every single piece of poetry in the world to be written about him. Not that he needs to know any of this.

I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back and take a deep breath. He’s so focused on his essay, glasses slipping down his nose, he hasn’t even noticed I’m having a mental breakdown right here. I love Snow in glasses. It wasn’t much of a shocker when a couple of months ago we discovered that the root of his recurring headaches was his poor vision. The first time he wore them in front of me, I literally snogged him silly.

I clear my throat and look down to the draft of my favourite poem about him. It’s filled with crossed out words that I kept replacing as I went along when I was writing it, one or two years ago.

“Snow,”

He doesn’t look at me, but I can tell he heard me by how he nods and murmurs quietly, “yeah?”

I tuck my legs under me and grab my glass of wine. I need him to look at me, but at the same time, I don’t want to see his expression in case he thinks this is messed up.

“Snow,” I try again.

He removes his glasses from his face and places them on his laptop’s keyboard.

He looks at me and gives me a warm, tired smile, “Yeah?”

"Snow, how would you feel having a _poem_ written about you?"

He places his laptop on the coffee table, and his eyes search mine, and I swear to Merlin I'm blushing so hard I feel like the room is a burning forest.

"What?"

I roll my eyes and hide behind my glass of wine, "You heard me,"

##### Simon 

Baz blushes quite easily when he’s being soft like this, especially after he’s fed.

I turn to face him completely and scoot closer to him, “What do you mean about a poem?”

He sneers and hides even more, hugging one of the sofa’s cushions to his chest. I grab his hand, wrapping my chubby fingers against his slender ones.

I kiss the back of his palm, “You write poetry? I mean, I know that, but-”

He cuts me off, “You know?”

I nod, “Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen your journal open, but I haven’t read it,”

He doesn’t say anything but he squeezes my hand, “What I’m- What I’m trying to say is, you write about me?”

His voice is a whisper as he says, “Who else could I write about?”

I mean, it’s kind of obvious, it’s the sort of romantic gesture you’d expect from someone as creative and complex as Baz is, but it still tugs at my heart, to know he cares for me in a way that’s important enough to put our relationship on paper.

I sigh and ask myself for the thousandth time, _what did I ever do to deserve Baz Pitch?_ That’s a mystery on itself. I feel myself flushing all the way to my ears, as he places his glass on the side table, giving me the okay to jump him.

“ _Darling_ ”, I say softly, because I know he loves it. I save it for occasions like this, where we’re being unbearably soft.

##### Baz 

He wraps his arms around my neck and kisses my left cheek softly, making his way down my sharp cheekbone to my mouth. He kisses me then, so softly I can barely feel it and I find my chest physically aching from how much I love him. From how much his affection means to me and how it subtly reminds me that he believes that I’m actually alive.

Soon enough, he’s straddling me. Just when I think things are going to start moving towards my bedroom, he pulls back. My arms are still around his waist and his own are around my neck, caressing my hair.

His eyes are semi-closed, and his long lashes are fanning against his cheeks as he takes a deep breath, and then he raises his eyes to meet mine and I swear to Merlin he’s an angel, with his wings spread out, shielding us from the remainders of light and the buzz of the city. His eyes are intense and curious as he smiles,

“Show me,”

I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

He rolls his eyes this time, “The poem,”

“Who says it’s written, Snow? I meant it in a hypothetical way,”

He raises both eyebrows and then kisses the corner of my mouth. I can’t help but tighten my grip on his waist and let my eyes close for a second.

“Of course it’s written. It’s you we’re talking about, you insufferable git,”

I raise both arms in defeat and reach for my discarded journal, just to the side table.

“You have to know, there’s more than one,”

He nods like an excited puppy. This moron. “Yeah?”

I hand it to him on the specific page I want him to read and squeeze his body to mine as he sits on my lap. I can’t believe he’s about to read it right in front of me.

“You don’t have to actually read it-”

“Shh, but I want to.”

I sigh. I’m always losing when it comes to him. He squints a little and holds the journal close to his face, too lazy to reach for his glasses. I feel like my heart is going to beat out of my chest and I’m going to die right here.

> _Brave love_
> 
> _“As I laid on the freezing ground,_  
>  keeping myself together only with  
>  foreign remembrance and faith,  
>  I created pictures in my head, played around  
>  with the idea of finding an endgame with you 
> 
> _As I laid in the quietest night,_  
>  eyes alight by moonlight at four,  
>  I wondered how many nights before,  
>  I had hoped, wished, and prayed  
>  for you to be mine forevermore 
> 
> _As I laid in your arms for the first time,_  
>  being burned from the inside out by your love,  
>  I wept as I let my heart finally find a home  
>  because next to me was brave love  
>  the kind that only an angel could gift.” 
> 
> _-TBGP  
>  _

I follow his eyes as the drift down the page, and I know he’s read it twice because it’s been at least five minutes since he started reading.

He caresses the page this time, softly, like it’s a precious object and not a journal from Ryman’s. My heart is beating so fast, I can actually feel it in my chest. It’s pretty obvious that he likes it, but at the same time, he’s not saying anything and that’s just not like Snow.

Finally, he sets the journal on the sofa’s cushions and wraps his arms around my neck, squeezing.

“Crowley. Fuck,”

I raise an eyebrow and meet his eyes. They’re so alive, you’d never think he wanted to give up on himself after the Humdrum.

He tries again, this time his voice softer, “Fuck, Baz. I love you,”

He kisses my temple. “So much. I really do, you’re everything I fucking care about,”

I grin. His outburst of affection and his coarse words make my chest feel like it’s about to burst.

I kiss his mouth quickly, “I love you more,” 

He shakes his head, “That’s impossible,” He grabs my left hand, the one that’s not holding onto his waist. He’s still sitting on my lap sideways, but since I have so little blood circulating, my limbs rarely fall asleep.

“I don’t think so,” I say because I really don’t think he could win at this.

He smiles shyly, hiding his face on my neck, “I can’t believe there’s more of these. For me, about me,”

I shake my head, “Just about seven years worth of me vomiting my feelings on paper,”

“That’s so lovely.”

He looks down at my hand. He’s playing with my fingers, almost as if he were counting them. He stops when he reaches my ring finger.

“Baz,”

“Yes?” I lean back a little and his eyes meet mine.

His thumb and forefinger circle my ring finger, and he runs them across the base gently, “How would you feel, if I placed a ring around this finger?”

The world stops spinning. 

For the longest of times, I’m wordless. Because I was sure this relationship was real, but I was also very aware of the fact that Snow could change his mind in the future and decide to marry someone else.

He clears his throat softly and shrugs, “I mean, not like now but someday soon, yeah?”

I stare at his profile, “You’ve thought about that?”

He nods once like he’s affirming he loves sour cherry scones. “A little. I don’t want you to freak out, though,”

I smile as he continues, “I mean, we could do it, but if you don’t want to, that’s okay too,”

Never in my most elaborate daydreams, I allowed myself to believe something like this could ever happen to someone like me. Someone with so little humanity left in me.

“Yes.”

His eyes search my face like he’s trying to study me. I speak clearly, fixing my eyes on his, “I would love it. I would bloody well love it.”

His smile turns into a giant grin as he places another soft kiss on my temple. So ridiculously tender. “I’m not proposing right now, yeah? But maybe after we’re done with Uni,”

I roll my eyes at him, “I know, Snow. There’s no ring in sight,”

He flushes an even darker shade of pink. _Lovely._ “Just wanted to know where we stood in this,”

I kiss my favourite mole on his cheek. 

“I’m here, with you as long as you want me to stay,”

He raises an eyebrow at me, stealing one of my signature expressions.

“That’s forever, Basilton.”

I let my lips on his confirm that in fact, I’m planning on a lifetime of us.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Feel free to drop a comment/kudos if you liked this!!!** Comments make this human so happy :) <3
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: alivealivealive.tumblr.com
> 
> P.S. I'm awfully sorry if the poem is terrible lol, this is the first time I've ever written poetry, so it might be awful!


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